


Moonstone

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond offers to ease Lindir’s stress and winds up with a hefty confession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonstone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His letter seems rudely short, but Elrond is careful with his words and spends much thought on them. There simply isn’t anything of note to say now that Galadriel has already visited so recently and knows all that’s happened in Imladris since his last letter. Still, these messages are a tradition, which Elrond intends to keep. If a proper letter requires a sleepless night to puzzle out thoughtful engagements, then so be it. The sun’s already set outside the veranda, the sky filtering from blue to black. The light, for now, is enough to write by, but he’ll have to fetch candles shortly. He’s just set down his quill when a knock sounds on his door.

He calls, “Come in,” over one shoulder and turns, unsurprised to see his visitor. Lindir bustles in, carefully shutting the door behind himself and carrying a bundle of cloth—tomorrow’s robes. He walks swiftly to place them on the dresser, looking far more frazzled than usual.

After fidgeting the robes into the exact right angle—Lindir can be very persnickety like that—he comes next to Elrond’s desk to bow, far lower than any other of Imladris’ residents would do. It lets his chestnut hair slip down over his shoulders, his hands reaching his knees. He announces, quiet and melodic like so many of his words, “I am deeply sorry for my lateness, my lord. There is much to do in repairing the disruption of the dwarves, although this is no excuse for such failure in my duties.”

Elrond, who would be perfectly content to simply wear whatever non-pressed and unprepared clothes lie in his wardrobe, assures Lindir, “There is nothing to be sorry for.” Because of the way Lindir remains bowed, brow furrowed in clear distress, body so very _tight_ , Elrond adds, “It is I who must offer my apologizes for taxing you so with allowing such a prolonged stay of our guests.”

Lindir shakes his head lightly, causing his hair to glisten in the starlight as it shifts. He remains bent in two, so Elrond reaches out to slip his hand beneath Lindir’s chin. Lindir’s breath catches. Elrond carefully lifts his head, and Lindir obeys the movement, straightening to stand again, though he only moves from Elrond’s palm very slowly. Instead of bowing, he dips his head against his chest and lowers his eyes. “It is your right to entertain as long as you wish, and I am still honoured to serve you for it. I am sorry. I did not mean to complain.”

Elrond lets out a little sigh. He’s very fond of Lindir—more so than he’d care to admit—but Lindir is a very unique creature and can be difficult to assuage at times. Diverting from the topic of dwarves, Elrond notes, “You appear very tense.” Lindir becomes taut so easily, but that makes it no easier for Elrond to see. “I would wish you to take time to relax; things need not be immediately the way they were.”

Lindir, eyes still averted, murmurs, “I wish to please my lord immediately.”

The wording gives Elrond a shameful pause. It’s innocent enough in context, but Lindir has a way of offering Elrond great temptation. It almost stays his next suggestion, but he’s become very skilled in resisting his own desires and he doesn’t wish to withhold any relief he can provide Lindir. Elrond gestures to his other side, asking, “Will you take a seat on the bed?”

Lindir’s head snaps up instantly, bright eyes wide. Before Elrond can explain, he mumbles, “On my... my lord’s bed...?”

“So I may administer a massage,” Elrond elaborates, as levelly as he can. “I was skilled at it, once, and did so often to ease the aches of soldiers from the war. Perhaps it could remedy some of your tension.”

This explanation does nothing to take the shock from Lindir’s face. If anything, his cheeks look pinker than usual. He opens his mouth but says nothing, and his tongue traces slowly along his bottom lip, probably just in thought, but it still catches Elrond’s eyes. After a moment, Lindir mutters, sounding incredibly torn, “My lord, I am not... you should not have to serve me in such a way...”

It’s hardly a service. Arching one brow, Elrond calmly replies, “I am known as a healer. This is what my home is for, and I should, I think, serve anyone I like.” Lindir shuts his mouth, and Elrond does as well, wishing belatedly that he’d phrased it differently. But Lindir can be very self-deprecating around Elrond, and sometimes Elrond must be stern to counteract it. Lindir lowers his eyes again, and now it’s evident that he’s blushing deeply.

He nods quickly and blurts, “Thank you,” before rushing around the chair. He slips out of his sandals and climbs right onto Elrond’s mattress, crawling on all fours to the middle of the bed and sitting down. His back is ramrod straight, as though he means to cement himself there before Elrond can change his mind. 

Elrond, for his part, has to stifle a little smile. He leaves his letter for now, instead sweeping onto the bed, where he takes more time. Lindir sits facing the headboard, hair cascading smoothly down his back. Elrond settles in behind him, forcing the bed to dip with their combined weight, and reaches to gently peel the long vest from Lindir’s shoulders. Lindir lets out another hitch of breath but allows it.

The vest he folds to place aside, leaving Lindir in blue-purple robes with a high collar and stern cut, highlighting his trim frame. Next, Elrond gathers up Lindir’s hair, careful to catch every strand, and slides it over one shoulder. Lindir’s long fingers climb to take and hold it out of the way. Lindir casts one tentative look over his shoulder, then blushes hotter and looks strictly away again. 

Elrond tries to ignore such looks. It would be wrong to do this whilst thinking of how very cute his attendant is, how very helpful and sweet and so very good to Elrond. Lindir is easily one of his greatest treasures. And treasures must be cared for, so Elrond lifts his hands to splay along Lindir’s shoulder blades, fingertips pressing in just enough to _feel_. Lindir immediately gasps, then one arm shifts, and Elrond thinks he might be covering his mouth. Elrond attempts to move on.

He’s slow, at first, spreading out his fingers and drawing them back in, rubbing along the way in wide, soothing circles. It’s made somewhat more difficult by Lindir’s robes, but they’re a safety net best left in place, so Elrond does what he can. He kneads across Lindir’s shoulders and down to about midway along his spine, going in no particular pattern. There’s too much between them for Elrond to pinpoint where Lindir’s muscles are tightest, and Lindir offers no direction, so Elrond simply massages everywhere.

He does this for some time, enjoying Lindir’s quiet presence. It would be nice, though, to have some music—it’s too late for the minstrels outside to still be playing, but Lindir is a very talented singer and harp player. Elrond has heard him humming to himself on more than one occasion, though he usually stops when he realizes that others are listening. It’s something Elrond has been working on, trying to bring Lindir out of his shell. Lindir has become more open about his music as of late, but there’s still some distance to go.

Eventually, when Elrond has already spent perhaps an hour on Lindir’s rigid back, it becomes clear that he isn’t helping. His fingers slow, drifting to the middle and tracing down the arch of Lindir’s spine. He hesitates to say anything, but for Lindir’s sake, he comments, “I apologize if this has little effect; your robes are very thick.”

Lindir is quiet for a moment. Elrond waits. It’s very possible that his young attendant has already become bored and wishes a polite excuse to leave—it’s quite late—but then Lindir answer quietly without looking back, “I could... I could remove my robes, if my master would permit it...”

There have been several occasions on which Lindir has referred to Elrond as his master, and all of them have sent subtle shivers through Elrond’s body. He countered it once, but a year later, Lindir used it again, and Elrond knows from the context that it isn’t disparaging or forced; it’s a term Lindir _chooses_ to use, for whatever reason Elrond can’t fathom. He thinks of denying the suggestion, though he’d thought of it himself, but the _want_ is very great, and beyond that, he wants to help Lindir. He knows he can restrain himself; he’s done so for decades. Only because Lindir offered, Elrond says, “Very well.”

Lindir’s head lowers. There’s a tiny snapping noise, and then another—Lindir working down the buttons. Though Elrond longs to help, he sits and waits. Lindir goes through many such sounds before he’s shedding his robes like a second skin, leaving Elrond to watch in awe. The robes pool around Lindir’s waist, covering his lap and tights, but exposing everything from his long neck to just beneath his tailbone. His fingers begin to rake nervously through his hair, still pulled over one shoulder, and he murmurs thickly, “Thank you, my lord.”

Elrond doesn’t know what for. He’s the one being given an honour, though it’s a traitorous one. He returns to his work without an answer. As soon as his fingers touch Lindir’s bare skin, Lindir arches slightly forward, head tilting back, and a ragged breath escapes his lips. Elrond only wishes he could see it. He attempts to move on as though he didn’t hear it, and he returns to kneading across the smooth expanse of Lindir’s shoulder blades. Lindir’s creamy skin is incredibly soft beneath him and somewhat warm, but clearly knotted underneath. Now he can pinpoint those knots easier and attempts to work them out with varying degrees of pressure—Lindir never comments on which techniques he prefers.

Dipping down is now more difficult—he deliberately keeps his hands above Lindir’s waist, though there’s some skin exposed lower and he could make an easy excuse to trace the supple curve that disappears into the hill of robes. He makes several laps of Lindir’s back, taking his time to give Lindir everything he can. Lindir shortly begins to tremble very faintly against Elrond’s busy fingers, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing. He doesn’t want to embarrass Lindir by asking. So he simply works on. 

When his hands retrace up Lindir’s neck, just beneath the wave of hair pulled aside, Lindir whispers, “Stop.”

Elrond halts instantly. It was very, very quiet, and he might’ve misheard, but he doesn’t want to take the chance. He withdraws his hands, waiting. Lindir seems to shrink, and then his hands appear on his sides as though he’s holding himself. He looks like he may buckle over again. It gives Elrond a swell of concern, but he doesn’t know what’s happened or what to say.

While he’s still thinking, Lindir mumbles. “I am sorry.” A deep breath, and then another: “I am so _sorry_. I... I thought I could resist... I just wanted to feel your hands on my skin, but it is wrong—I should not have taken advantage this way, I—”

“Lindir,” Elrond cuts in, hushing him, as it sounds like Lindir’s near tears. Elrond puts one hand on his arm and tries to gently turn him, but Lindir only moves halfway; he looks at Elrond once before pressing his chin to his chest and closing his eyes. It’s as though Elrond took all his days of stress and forced them to the surface. Elrond keeps a firm grip on Lindir’s biceps and leans in to say, “Lindir, listen to me. You have not taken advantage.”

“I have,” Lindir chokes, but then he sucks in a long breath, and his shaking subsides a little, perhaps now that it’s clear Elrond isn’t angry with him. Elrond’s disapproval has always seemed to be his biggest fear, though it’s never happened. He allows his eyes to open, though half lidded and looking away, and he mutters, cheeks entirely red, “I have... I am having impure thoughts about my master.” His eyes close again, face flinching as though he expects to be hit. He’s always been too hard on himself. 

If Elrond weren’t so worried for him, there’d be a myriad of other questions. As it is, Elrond can barely work out what Lindir’s saying. He wants to pry, but he needs to make sure that Lindir’s alright. He spends a minute thinking, then carefully asks, voice as kind as he can manage, “You are... not comfortable with massages?” 

Lindir shakes his head. “No, I...” He licks his lips and covers his mouth again. 

“This massage, then,” Elrond clarifies. “With me.” Lindir nods, and Elrond, feeling both confused and horribly guilty, tries to puzzle out, “I should not have asked you onto my bed. I promise you it was not my intention with a massage to—”

But Lindir shakes his head harder and splutters, “No, it is not just this one, it... it is...” Finally, he looks at Elrond, his eyes big and nervous and perhaps a tad wet around the edges. “My lord, I have always felt... for you, I...”

Elrond’s chest is tightening. Lindir words are so scrambled and uncertain, and Elrond doesn’t want to hope but still quietly asks, “Lindir... do you have feelings for me?”

To Elrond’s disbelief, Lindir nods. It’s clear, now, and Elrond can’t believe he didn’t see it before—Lindir has long been throwing furtive looks at him, but he didn’t realize what they were. Utter adoration, yes, devotion, but he thought they were simply the looks of a loyal servant and friend. He feels foolish for it. Lindir mumbles, “I am sorry...”

Elrond turns Lindir more towards him with one hand, the other coming to cup Lindir’s face and draw it closer. It’s isn’t the most appropriate answer, but Elrond thinks it may heal Lindir’s pain the fastest and communicate what words can’t. He brings their lips together, just a chaste, fleeting press, with his head tilted a little to the side so their noses are brushing but not crushed. His fingers slide back into Lindir’s hair. When he withdraws, it isn’t far, and he keeps his hand in place.

Lindir’s eyes are closed. But they flutter slowly open, and he breathes, “My lord...?”

A decade or two earlier, Elrond may have done nothing. He’s loved Lindir deeply for some time, but he’s far older and is in a position of power, and it wouldn’t seem _right_ , except that he can see in Lindir how desperately Lindir desires this. They’ve been together more than long enough, and Elrond’s tired enough to know that Middle Earth holds far too many unpleasant things to deny what happiness does come along. He’ll still have to work on some boundaries, perhaps coax Lindir more into a minstrel than attendant, but this will do for a start.

“You do me a great honour,” he says, to which Lindir’s eyebrows knit together; it looks like he might break.

He mutters, unbelieving, “I... I cannot have you...”

“You can,” Elrond corrects, unable to stop a small smile of amusement. “If you wish it.”

“But you... you are a lord, and I... and you were married...”

“And long since separated, and you are one elf and I am another.”

Lindir still appears confused. But the tension has seeped out of him; even his posture has relaxed. Elrond, still holding his arm, guides him back around, so that he faces the headboard again. Elrond returns his hands to Lindir’s back, pleased to find many of the knots resolved. There’s no reason not to continue Lindir’s treatment.

Lindir glances over his shoulder once, eyes Elrond, and then looks away with another blush. Elrond asks, “Do you wish me to stop again?”

Lindir shakes his head and murmurs, “I am simply... I am sorry; I can hardly believe it. In my lord’s bed, touching me, _kissing_ me...” a pause, and he admits, “I have loved you for a long time. I am too happy.”

“And I have wanted you,” Elrond returns, working along Lindir’s spine, “but I did not think such a young, beautiful songbird would delight in the arms of an old man.”

“You are not old,” Lindir quips.

“And you are not unworthy.” And Elrond _is_ old but knows better than to argue it. 

There’s a stretch of small silence, far more content than before, than Elrond knew there could be, though he feels as though there’s still much to say. He isn’t sure what yet. Lindir, after a time, murmurs, “This is the best night of my life,” and Elrond smiles and keeps going. Tomorrow morning, perhaps, they will have to set some ground rules—Lindir will have to learn to use his name, for one. Another little while, and Lindir asks tentatively, “May I massage you after, my lord?”

“Another night, yes,” Elrond decides, already looking forward to the concept. It’s been a long time since he’s received such attentions, and even longer from that of a lover, if that’s what Lindir’s to become. The nature of his ‘impure’ thoughts will certainly need to be explored at some point. “Tonight, you are done with your chores.”

Lindir says, “Yes, my lord,” with a strangely blissful undertone—he’s usually very reluctant to give up his duties. Elrond simply smiles. 

Elrond massages Lindir through the beginning of the night, until Lindir slumps in his grasp, fallen asleep. Then Elrond scoops his dear attendant up in his arms and lays Lindir back down in the pillows, tugging the spare robes away and smoothing the blankets over him.

When Elrond returns to his letter, he has much to tell.


End file.
